Chapter 3Trash the Invites, Trash Him Too

When I walked in, a floor lamp cast a soft glow across the living room. On the balcony, Sarah was watering the plants. She glanced up when I entered but said nothing. I didn't greet her either and went straight to the bedroom.

Christopher was on the sofa, a stack of brochures from wedding planners on his lap. They were filled with photos of chapels, outdoor lawns, and grand hotel ballrooms.

He saw me and immediately beckoned me over. “Claire, you’re finally back. Come, see which one you like.”

I sat down and flipped through a few pages, nodding as I looked.

“Don’t be so hard on Sarah,” he began. “She had a tough time. Her ex-husband was abusive, and she finally got a divorce. It’s not easy raising a kid on her own.”

I stopped turning the pages and looked at him. “Are you defending her?”

He quickly changed his tone, a mix of pleading and placating, and took my arm. “Of course not. I’m always on your side. I already told her, no more cilantro in the food.” His hand was warm, his voice soft.

I looked at him, and the anger inside me began to dissipate. “Fine,” I said, my voice still a little cool, but the tension was gone.

Just then, there were two knocks on the door. “Sir, Miss Vance, dinner is ready.”

This time, she was perfectly polite. She waited for us to come out before she brought the food from the kitchen, and she didn’t sit at the table. After setting down the dishes, she recited the menu, adding pointedly, “None of these have cilantro.”

I glanced at the plates. The seasoning had indeed been changed.

Christopher took the opportunity to add, “Try it today. If you don’t like it, we can adjust it.”

I nodded and sat down. The atmosphere was still a bit strained, but it was an improvement. I put the brochures aside to look at after dinner.

After eating, I went to my room to catch up on some emails. As I relaxed, a wave of drowsiness washed over me, and I lay down for a quick nap.

I was drifting in and out of sleep when I heard a clattering sound from my nightstand, like someone was rummaging through the drawer.

I shot up, fumbling for the bedside lamp.

In the sudden light, an eight-or-nine-year-old boy was crouched by the nightstand, my lipstick and a bottle of perfume in his hands.

“Who are you?!” I jumped out of bed, blocking the door.

The boy glanced at me, said nothing, and bolted for the living room.

I chased after him and grabbed his arm. “Who are you? Who let you in? Sarah! Sarah!” I yelled.

The sudden confrontation scared him. He threw himself on the floor and started kicking and screaming. I was stunned by his reaction. Just then, I heard footsteps. Sarah came in from outside, saw the boy, and immediately rushed to his side, shielding him.

“Miss Vance, what happened?” she asked, her eyes wary.

The boy, seeing a familiar face, dropped the act, scrambled to his feet, hid behind her, and made a face at me.

“Did you bring him here?” I demanded.

“He’s my son,” she replied. “There was no one at home, so I picked him up from school and brought him here for a little while.” Before I could say anything, she added, “I already asked Mr. Hayes. He said it was okay.”

A surge of anger rose in me. I went to the study and dragged Christopher out. He had no idea what was happening.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, bewildered.

“This child. You said he could come into our home?” I pointed to the living room.

He nodded. “Sarah had no one to watch him. He’s too young to be alone.”

I didn’t argue. I just pushed him back toward the bedroom. “Then how are you going to take responsibility for this?”

He followed my gaze to my vanity and froze. It was a disaster. Foundation, blush, and brushes were scattered everywhere. Several lipsticks were broken. Two perfume bottles were open, their contents spilled on the floor, the strong scent overwhelming. One of them was a new Chanel I had just bought.